


False Dawn

by sophiegaladheon



Category: Original Work
Genre: Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Fairy Tale Retellings, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-13
Updated: 2019-12-13
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:40:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21779983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sophiegaladheon/pseuds/sophiegaladheon
Summary: A gift came from the stars.A sci-fi retelling of the Sir Gawain and the Green Knight poem, with lesbians.
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Female Character
Kudos: 3





	False Dawn

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this over a year ago for the Inked Fairy Tales zine and finally remembered to put it up here. I'm still pretty proud of it, especially considering it was the first piece of original writing I'd finished and shared in many years.

A gift came from the stars.

A puzzle, a stream of data recorded by observatories and listening stations around the globe, news of the transmission dominated the news cycle, the halls of power, and every backroom, breakroom, schoolyard, and dinner table conversation from Abu Dhabi to Zagreb. 

_How wonderful_ , said the optimists, _a message from an extraterrestrial intelligence. We're not alone in the universe._

_What if it's a threat_ , said the pessimists, _or a declaration of war. Just because there's other life out there doesn't mean it's friendly._

_It doesn't matter_ , said an awful lot of people, _even if it is a message from some alien intelligence we can't read it anyway._

Tucked away in their cubicles and laboratories, the world’s top programmers and codebreakers, scientists and engineers, toiled away trying to puzzle out the secrets of the message. Universities, corporations, and governments, all sent their best men and women. Weeks passed, then months. The world waited, anxious, excited, fearful of what the transmission contained, yet no one seemed any closer to uncovering its mysteries.

Then one day, word came from a small team of university researchers led by a certain Professor Gawain. They had unlocked the secrets hidden in the transmission. They had wonderful news. The message was not, as many had feared, a threat, or a declaration of war. 

The transmission, they said, was a database of scientific information that held the keys to technology far beyond current human capabilities, far beyond our wildest dreams. Teleportation, faster than light travel, unlimited energy—all this could soon be ours.

The world was in shock. It seemed too good to be true. The team posted their findings online, open source, and everyone from backyard biohackers and computer hobbyists to governments and corporations dug into the data like they were starving and it was a four-course feast. 

The original research team disbanded, its leader sent home. “You weren’t supposed to do that,” said a succession of authority figures in dark suits, “Certain people thought it very important that this information stay secure.”

_That it stays exploitable_ , thought Professor Gawain, but she nodded and agreed, politely apologetic to all the right people, and they let her go home to her research and her wife and their cat as the world reeled and convulsed from the cataclysm of change unleashed upon it. 

Gawain weathered the storm in her small house—cozy, cheerful yellow paint, wooden floorboards and wide windows—where she spent her days working on research (unconnected to the transmission data, as promised), catching up on old journal articles, and skimming the news sites for the most interesting headlines. Her favorites were the ones that claimed vast conspiracies and outrageous untruths, like the one that said that use of the new technologies would bring about the end of days. She also liked the ones that talked about all of the lives being saved by the new information. Those made her smile.

Some days, when her wife got home early from work, they would go out into the garden and spend the afternoon working the earth, pulling weeds, trimming back over enthusiastic shrubs, pruning the roses. Sometimes the cat would catch sight of them and complain loudly through the screen door until he frightened the songbirds away and one or the other of the pair would slide open the door and sit on the porch, contented cat purring on their lap while the other laughed.

Some days, Gawain would go up to the university to drop off papers, or consult on a project, or argue with the administration, or give a guest lecture in a colleague's course. But other than those occasional trips there was little to distract her from the quiet idyll of her home life. Until the day the men in suits came and knocked on the door of the little yellow house surrounded by flowers with a cat curled up in the window.

Gawain opened the door to the pair of men standing there, black umbrellas sheltering them from the rain. “Ma’am,” they said, holding out an envelope, “Your service is requested.”

It wasn’t a request, so she took the letter and carefully unsealed it. The paper was thin and cheap. Government budgets. She scanned the contents. Then she read it again. There had been another transmission. An invitation, or an order, for the earth to send a representative to demonstrate that humanity was using its new knowledge responsibly. 

“You want me to go into space?”

“We want you to consider volunteering.”

The men’s faces were neutral, carefully sculpted masks. Gawain’s pulse was thudding in her ears. She thanked the men and watched them drive away. It was still raining, but she put on her boots and raincoat anyway.

Miles of suburban sidewalk disappeared beneath her soles and, hours later, she found herself lost in an unfamiliar neighborhood. She wandered until she found a stop and took the bus home. It was still raining and she hadn’t brought an umbrella, so her hair was wet and dripping by the time she finally reached her door. 

The light in the kitchen was lit, shining out clearly into the dimness of the overcast early dusk. Her wife was preparing dinner, and the smells of stew and fresh bread swirled around her as she hung up her coat. Cold and numb, from the news as much as the weather, she stood still and compliant as her wife flitted and fussed, toweled her hair dry and wrapped her in blankets on the couch before setting a hot mug of soup in her hands. It burned her tongue as she ate.

The story came out in fits and starts, but by the end of the meal the number of those party to the knowledge of the alien invitation now included her wife and their cat. Her wife said little throughout her retelling, speaking up only to prompt or to clarify on the few occasions Gawain trailed off. At the conclusion she sat silently, slowly picking her hunk of bread into crumbs.

“I don’t want you to go,” she said.

Gawain said nothing, fingers curled around the mug of soup, still half full but by now grown cold.

Her wife smiled sadly, small and thin. “But you’re going to do it anyway, aren’t you?”

“If they ask,” she said, not bothering to deny the accusation.

“If they ask.”

They asked. Less than a week later the official notice came, by way of a special messenger direct from the UN, requesting her service as a special envoy on the behalf of planet Earth. 

She took the letter, printed on thick, expensive paper and embossed with a metallic crest and folded it in half. She thanked the messenger and shut the door. That evening her wife just looked at her and sighed. The two weeks between her summons and her departure were filled with tense awkward silences, as they both did their best to hold back their anger and their sadness and their fear. Her wife baked a lot of cakes. Gawain ate a lot of cake. Neither of them tried to talk about it.

They kissed goodbye when she left. Her wife didn’t come with her to the airport. She stood in the door, cat in her arms, as Gawain got in the taxi. She knew she shouldn’t but she kept her eyes on the house until the cab turned a corner and yellow brick disappeared from sight.

Space was wonderful. Like everything Gawain ever dreamt of as a little girl sitting in front of the television watching studio sound stages and the Canadian spruce forest decked out as spaceships and alien planets. It was even better than science fiction, though, because it was real. She laughed as she pressed the buttons on the food processor, ordering a facsimile of pizza with a side of dietary supplements. All the sci-fi trappings, courtesy of the extra-terrestrial data packet. 

The ship hummed as it flew, a constant low throbbing Gawain could feel in her bones. The ship (a fascinating, shiny, just constructed to the latest extraterrestrial technological specifications wonder machine designed to carry a passenger faster than the speed of light across the galaxy) had been programmed to head in the direction of the summons. Not long after launch she lost contact with mission control, too far away for the limits of real time communication. And so, the ship cruised along towards a distant star, Gawain all alone with only her books and home videos for company.

The onset of a jarring silence woke her, utter stillness echoing through her cabin. She walked down the corridor to the cockpit, still in pajamas. Outside, instead of the endless void of space she had grown used to seeing through the windows, shone the bright light of a sunny earth afternoon. Gawain recognized the familiar sight of the carefully trimmed roses of her own back garden.

She rushed towards the external hatch, pausing only to grab the tablet of first contact protocols various government agents had spent hours drilling her on. 

The instruments read a breathable atmosphere. She opened the hatch and stepped outside. Damp grass tickled the soles of her bare feet. The smell of freshly turned earth filled her nose. Somewhere in the distance, a bird sang.

“Greetings, traveler.”

Gawain spun around. A balding, middle aged man in overalls strode towards her carrying a pitchfork. “Um. Hello,” she said, protocol file forgotten.

“Why don’t you come inside for some tea?” said the man, holding open the door to what looked like her house.

The interior continued the illusion, from the furniture to the cat sleeping in the sunny spot in the hallway, but the personal photos were gone from their frames. In the kitchen, a middle-aged woman hummed as she stirred a pot of something at the stove.

“Oh, hello darling,” she said, turning to give the man a kiss, “do we have a visitor?”

“Yes, dear.” 

Gawain found herself bustled into one of the familiar kitchen chairs, plied with hot tea and scones, and, at the woman’s prompting, recounting the whole story from the beginning before she could process what was happening.

“I say that’s quite a tale, my dear,” said the woman, picking up the conversation and running, “and you’ve come very far indeed. If you don’t mind, might I have a look at those coordinates you’re searching for? Oh! You’re looking for the Green Chapel. Don’t worry about a thing,” she patted Gawain’s hand as she carried on without pause for comment, “you’ve almost made it. We can lead you the rest of the way.”

The couple insisted on feeding her supper—a dish of prime rib, scalloped potatoes, and wax beans that vividly recalled her second date with her wife, nearly ten years past and at a restaurant long since closed—before bundling her off to sleep in the replica of her own master bedroom.

Gawain tossed and turned, her mind rejecting the familiarity of her own bed even if her body craved it after so long sleeping in the cramped spaceship bunk. The sheets smelled too sterile, the texture just slightly too rough. The emptiness at her side too gaping. And the sheer impossibility of the entire situation curled tighter and tighter in her mind until, like the hamster worn out from running in its wheel, she dropped into a restless, uneasy sleep.

In the morning the couple insisted on feeding her a hearty breakfast before she left. “You’ll need your strength, dearie,” said the woman as she scooped another serving of corned beef hash onto Gawain’s plate.

Gawain found that not reassuring at all, and continued to mutely shovel eggs into her mouth.

The road to the Green Chapel took the form of a wide dirt road through the forest. Gawain did not remember a forest behind her house, but at this point she was too tired to even try and make sense of the strangeness. She was also still barefoot and wearing pajamas, so she hoped that whoever she was meeting would not be too hung up on formality.

After an hour or so the man drew to a halt as they turned a bend in the road. “There,” he said pointing, “best of luck to you,” before turning and heading back the way they had come.

Up ahead Gawain could see a castle, in full medieval style, pennants flying from the turrets in the breeze. The inside looked like a castle as well, stone walls covered with thick tapestries, heavy wooden furniture populating the rooms.

The great hall was lit with candles, a long table set as if for a feast. The plates were bare, no food or drink in sight. 

“Who enters my hall?” The voice rang out from behind her with the resonance of a thunderclap and Gawain spun and lost her footing on the slick stone floor. Pain shot up her hip as she hit the ground. Above her stood a knight in full plate armor.

She swallowed and pushed herself to her feet. “I come bearing a message from the people of planet Earth,” she said, trying to recover at least some of the dignity of her mission, though she feared it now irretrievably lost. 

The knight tilted his head and looked at her silently for a moment. “So. You have come all this way. Tell me, messenger. Has your planet used our gift wisely?”

Gawain pulled out the tablet with the prepared video presentation put together by committee back on earth and pressed play.

“No,” interrupted the knight, “stop these canned speeches.” She paused the video, cheerful voice-over cut off mid-sentence. “What do you think, messenger? In your own words. Convince me of the worthiness of the planet you call Earth.”

Gawain took a deep breath. “Yes,” she said, “We have used your gift wisely. We have used your information to save lives, to improve quality of life and preserve the environment, to gain a better understanding of our own world and to explore beyond it. I don’t know what criteria you are judging us by, but if you ask me, yes, we have made good use of your gift.” She could feel her hands shaking as she finished. 

“So you say,” said the knight, “but what about the other uses? Your militaries have used our data to build better weapons. Your corporations have privatized their new creations to better profit off the vanity of the rich and the desperation of the poor. You must recognize the selfishness and folly of your planet. You yourself acted to try and prevent it, as fruitless as your actions were.”

Gawain scowled. “Of course, some people have tried to abuse it. No one is perfect. But you asked if we have used the data in a worthy manner. And overall, I still say yes, we have.”

“You are wrong,” said the knight, “you have failed. Leave now, we revoke your right to our knowledge. Your planet is not deserving.”

“What-” but Gawain could say no more before the knight shoved her hard in the chest, sending her flying backwards.

She landed with a gasp, one hand going to rub her doubly bruised tailbone, the other her breastbone.

The castle was gone. There was no sign of the road, or the forest, or the replica of her own house on earth. There was only a plane of nothingness stretching out to infinity in all directions and, to her left, the ship that had carried her on her journey, hatch still open, boarding ramp extended.

Gawain hurried on to the ship. Through the windows she could see the strange infinity dissolve into the familiar starfield and her breath came a little easier. That relief only lasted until she pulled up the navigational computer, to find the entire system blank. The only scrap of data left was the sequence of numbers indicating earth’s position in the galaxy. A tiny beacon floating in the void of nothingness.

Gawain ran a hand through her hair, squared her shoulders, dug out the instruction manual, and set about programming a flightpath back home.

The void of space seemed endless. Gawain kept track of the days and found that her return trip was taking longer than her initial voyage. She double-checked all of the systems and everything read normal. 

Books were read and re-read. Countless rounds of solitaire played. Video from home watched over and over, until she memorized every pixel. Apology letters written and thrown away. 

An incessant beeping woke Gawain one morning, dragging her up to the cockpit still barefoot and in her pajamas. She hoped the food processor wasn’t on the fritz again. But when she looked at the panels there were no angrily flashing lights. And outside the windows was the most beautiful blue glow she had ever seen. 

Gawain looked out in time to see the Mediterranean Sea passing below her. The sting of wetness on the backs of her hands told her she was crying and she gasped as she reached up to rub her face, trying for some kind of composure as she grasped for the radio.

There was no response from mission control. She tried again. Still no response. She cycled through the bandwidth and got nothing but static. A diagnostic said the radio was working fine. Gawain set the handset back in the dock perhaps a bit more forcefully than was warranted.

She looked at the instrument panel and then back down at the earth. Then over at the cabinet full of instruction manuals. How hard could it be? She pulled out the instructions and set about figuring out how to land a spaceship. 

The answer, in fact, was pretty damn hard, but even so there were only a few dings and dents on the hull of the ship that sat out front of the cheerful yellow house with the elderly cat curled up in the window as the reunited couple kissed tearfully in the front garden.


End file.
